


latibule.

by mylesowahudson



Series: dictionary of feelings [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Caring, Comfort/Angst, M/M, past self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24542950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylesowahudson/pseuds/mylesowahudson
Summary: latibule (n.) a hiding place for safety and comfortor: Martín is hurt and Andrés is his anchor
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: dictionary of feelings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774684
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77





	latibule.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [multifandom_fam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/multifandom_fam/gifts).



> I've never wrote anything like this, neither in present tense... I hope you enjoy this little piece, especially you, Dina <3

Andrés is gently running his fingers through Martín’s hair, eyes focused on his book. The room is quiet, only the ancient clock on the wall clicking as the hands of it move painfully slowly, counting the minutes left till the morning. Andrés’ voice is tender and calm as he reads from the book, accenting every word so it doesn’t get lost in the variety of different ones. He thinks his beloved is asleep, but no – the second Andrés tries to stop, he feels cold hand squeezing around his wrist, pulling, demanding… So he continues and suddenly his throat is dry and he can’t go on, he needs a drink. His hand reaches for the glass with water and he spots Martín’s eyes following his every move, heavy eyelids hiding his irises as he blinks slowly. He’s beautiful like that, even with the sadness painted on his face, even with the fear and worry hiding behind his eyes. He’s a masterpiece and Andrés loves art, he’s a connoisseur after all “How about we try now?”

“No” Martín whispers with his lower lip trembling. It looks like a butterfly ready to fly and Andrés is mesmerized by the beauty of it. Only Martín’s impatient tugging at his shirt reminds him of the reality

“Okay” he whispers and goes on, flipping the pages with almost inaudible rustle. The cover of the book matches Martín’s shirt, grey and worn out, with some coffee stains and wrinkles. His head is heavy on Andrés’ lap but it somehow gives him the sense of safety, it’s like a glimpse of something real, a pinch of hope that not everything is lost yet. Martín is like a book, Andrés doesn’t know what is going to be on the other page.

He feels himself dozing off when the dark sky of the night slowly undresses and puts on a beautiful, light pink gown of the early morning. They are both tired but sleep is going past their house, it’s not invited. Martín tries to remind Andrés of it, even as his eyes keep closing by themselves 

“Please, keep reading”

“I can’t, Martín, I swear” Andrés closes the book and starts massaging Martín’s scalp. Somehow it’s enough as he closes his eyes and breath slowly, his body warm and relaxed against Andrés’

“Sing me a song”

“What song?” Andrés doesn’t really know many songs but if it’s Martín who’s asking, he’s ready to learn them all

“The one about the forest” Martín’s face softens and his lips quiver in something that could be considered a smile if you look hard enough 

“Alright” Andrés sings the song about the forest, letting his fingers travel down Martín’s arm and back up, never leaving them in one place. The song fades at the end and it’s quiet for a minute, or maybe it’s ten minutes, but then Martín speaks again

“I’m tired”

Andrés knows it’s not the tired when Martín needs sleep, of course not. It’s the one when he gets tired of himself and Andrés just holds him through it because there isn’t much to be done “I know” he hums some melody for a while “Maybe I could draw you a bath?”

“Don’t leave me alone”

“No” Andrés sits up and holds Martín’s hand as he walks towards the bathroom. Martín sits on the toilet as Andrés is pouring water into the bathtub and fetches a big, white towel. The mirror in the room gets foggy when Martín starts undressing, looking down as he takes off piece by piece. Andrés is calm when he helps him into the hot water and winces when Martín gasps in pain “Is it too hot?”

“No” Martín denies, closing his eyes. In the artificial lighting of the bathroom his scars are much more visible, some of them faded and some fresh, still red like a poppy or a rose. Martín has tons of those bloody roses painted on his skin and Andrés blames himself for every single one, even if they’re not his fault. He often paints over them with his lips and allows his heart to beat faster when he gets Martín to smile, because then his eyes are shining again, two most beautiful stars

Andrés is the artist here although it was Martín who painted the most memorable picture. He chose a cold bathroom floor for his canvas, blood as his paint. It was abstraction, different at every angle and changing every second as there was more and more on the floor. Andrés didn’t like the painting, it scared him and he still remembers the white towels soaked with blood and thrown into the washing machine. The water turned pink when he programmed it for quick washing. 

Martín’s new muse is sadness that craftily crept into his mind and tricked him to believe that his real muse was gone forever. And Andrés doesn’t like the new muse, it makes Martín the way he is now

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, running his fingers through Martín’s hair. They’re tangled and greasy from Andrés’ constant touch but it doesn’t matter, it never did

“Yes”

“I love you” Andrés whispers because he ran out of things to say. It’s desperate and broken and still, Martín nods and tries so hard to smile that Andrés just kisses his shoulder, overflown with affection 

“You shouldn’t” it’s very quiet and unsure but audible

“Why?”

“I’m broken” Martín turns his head. His sad eyes are staring right into Andrés’ soul “Everything is fixed and I am still broken beyond fixing”

“You’re not broken” Andrés holds his face and links their foreheads “You’re just different now”

“You don’t like me anymore” Martín sniffles, his wet hand coming to the edge of the tub, immediately grasped by Andrés “Because I am… like this”

“I love you. I never left you”

“You never came home” the water in the tub splashes as Martín shifts “I got back and you weren’t there… I thought I lost you…”

“I did come home. I did, Martín, I am here”

“Do you hate me?”

“Of course not” Andrés’ heart clenches painfully at the broken tone Martín is using “I love you”

“Please don’t go”

“I will not” he pulls Martín for a soft kiss but the other man turns his head and sobs 

“You should leave me”

“I was late… You… You painted me a picture because of that” Andrés feels his throat tightening with all the tears he’s holding back

“You didn’t like it”

“No” he is honest, he has to be even with the hurt on Martín’s face “No, because it almost took you away from me”

“I thought you were gone”

“Never. I promised that we will meet in the house and we did”

“The water” Martín says blankly and Andrés attention shifts to the tub where the water slowly turns pink 

“What did you do?” Andrés immediately leans forward and grabs Martín’s both wrists ignoring his loud sobs, and examines the skin there. His bandage is soaked and blood drips slowly down his arm. Andrés sighs with relief “Look. We have to change it”

“It’s a pretty color” Martín whispers, watching as Andrés takes off the bandage and reveals the nasty wound, fresh and probably really painful

“Keep it away from the water” he says, holding the wounded hand and smiling at Martín. Martín smiles back and sighs softly 

“Wash my hair? I’m cold”

“Wet them, please” after Martín’s head comes out of the water, Andrés takes shampoo and massages it into the locks, gently, tenderly “I love you” he murmurs, placing a kiss on Martín’s temple. He gets no answer but that is completely okay. He washes out all the foam and helps Martín out of the tub. The younger man is shaking so Andrés quickly dries him, wraps fresh bandages around his forearm and puts warm pajamas on him. He makes him sit on the toilet, takes the comb and untangles Martín’s hair, humming the forest song. When they’re done it’s almost five in the morning

“Bed?” Andrés asks and Martín nods. The way he falls on the mattress tells Andrés that he’s exhausted. They lay next to each other and Andrés puts the covers on them, shifting onto his side and fighting with his own tiredness. He cannot fall asleep before Martín does

“Will you read to me?”

“I already did” Andrés wants to cry because he is tired, so tired but he gets up, picks up the book and comes back to bed “Please, Martín, try to sleep…”

“Read, please”

“Okay” he sighs and starts reading another chapter, grateful for the way Martín’s body plasters against his. They haven’t slept for 30 hours and Andrés starts feeling the effects. Surprisingly, Martín just looks tired, as usually these days. After approximately ten minutes he groans and says quietly “I can’t go any longer, Martín, I need to sleep…”

“Please, don’t leave me…”

“I’m right here” there’s desperation in the way Andrés whines “I’ll just close my eyes for a second”

“Kiss me” Martín whispers and Andrés knows it’s just a way to keep him awake. He complies anyway, placing a sweet peck on Martín’s lips 

“Sleep and I will kiss you more, okay? We will be more clear-headed when we rest”

“No…”

“You’re so tired, Martín, baby” Andrés pleads, caressing his face “Your body has to fix itself”

“You will leave me when I sleep”

“No, no I will not. I will be right here the moment you wake up” Andrés entwines their fingers “How could I leave you, my love?”

“You had once”

“No, I just needed a little bit more time to get here” he forces a smile and presses a kiss to his forehead. Martín snuggles into his arms and sighs softly, tiredly

“Tell me”

“What?”

“You know what”

Andrés knows. He wraps his arms around the love of his life, closes his eyes and whispers “My love… I run away to this place, which I don’t call home… but it treats me like this… My love, I run and hide under the covers of our dreams… My love, it’s your arms, my latibule… My love, my love…” he kisses Martín’s eyelids, tasting the saltiness of his tears “My love, when you sleep… I will rest too”


End file.
